Back to the land of the dead,
where hopes and dreams die,
fallen to the fog of exhaustion
and into a cloud of disorientation.

Goodbye to clarity and thought - it’ll be substituted by a desperate clawing for
anything, really.
Yelling at a client whose only fault is misunderstanding,
eating too much during lunch,
countless bottles of beer on the weekends,
drugs that dissipate time and space itself.
Anything to remember a feeling other than the muddled splat of confusion that the lifeless hours of the wee morning offers.

One question that comes through every day I’m clocked in, one that defies the primal confusion:
is all of this really worth living for?

And every time I wake up in the land of the dead,
the question cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
cycles,
until a fear creeps in.
And I wonder if it’s still a question
or if it’s something that’s creeped around my head all this time.